Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Take That Musharraf
"I order the immediate release of detained judges of the superior judiciary," Mr. Gilani told the National Assembly, shortly after it overwhelmingly voted for him to become prime minister."
Yousaf Raza Gilani
-- Pakistan's National Assembly prime minister , a top official in assassinated former prime minister Benazir Bhutto's party, five weeks after it won a general election.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Madawaska River Trip
Hey, Youse Guys,
I'm looking for someone to take a 4 day river canoe trip with me, guided by the good people of dog paddling adventures. I used to work with the guy who runs this outfit and I'm pretty sure the fact that I don't own a dog myself won't count me out. The price of the trip includes all equipment and food.
If you're interested, the details are attached, use the link on the far right (by the yellow pencil) to e-mail me.
I'm looking for someone to take a 4 day river canoe trip with me, guided by the good people of dog paddling adventures. I used to work with the guy who runs this outfit and I'm pretty sure the fact that I don't own a dog myself won't count me out. The price of the trip includes all equipment and food.
If you're interested, the details are attached, use the link on the far right (by the yellow pencil) to e-mail me.
|
The
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Arrival at Dar-es-Salam Airport
Following is an excerpt from my diary of my trip to Tanzania five years ago:
July 13, 2003
Arrived late yesterday evening (10:55 p.m.) at Dar airport. Learned a quick lesson: I was asked by a man shorter than me, with a pudgyness like a young child, to fill out a special form -- a SARS report. Having done this, I ended up being in line with no one ahead or behind me. Then Jelly Man says, "there is a long line, how are you going to get through?"
I say, "A long line?"
"Yes, there is a queue." I wait a few seconds, looking confused and realizing that Jelly Man wants to help me out, so I can help him out.
So I say to him, "Can you help me?"
He: "I can help you, can you help me?"
Me: "What kind of help?"
Jelly Man looks at me confused, maybe just frustrated because my questions seemed so mis-placed. What I meant to ask him, in a slightly hushed tone, was, "How much?"
He goes on to say, "you can help me?" Somewhat as a question and as a statement.
Finally, I say, "How much?"
He says, "$20.00."
Me: "How much is a Visa?"
Now events start to get very complicated. Ridiculously complicated and tangled. I don't have any cash. I have traveller's cheques. So Jelly Man escorts me past the line with the White faces, past the immigration officers and their Kalashnikov carrying army guy, to the "National Bureau of Exchange."
Jelly Man translates for me but the lady behind the plexi-glass has no U.S. dollars. It seems that the "National Bureau" is tapped out.
Outside the airport building is a man encased in glass. A small Indian man, shirt, tie, thin moustache. I go into his booth and ask if he can exchange my cheques for cash. He says, okay, except Jelly Man has my passport and gave it to a female immigration officer inside the terminal. Now, I don't have my passport. Thus, no way to change my traveller's cheques and I am drawing interest from the taxi drivers, the soldier (now standing outside the booth), and the immigration officers. And the Indian seems like an inadequate ally.
I tell the Indian man (an Ismaili who happens to speak Gujurathi) that I will be back.
Jelly Man is right outside the door and is very curious. I tell him my dilemma. As he walks me into the main building, various immigration types stop us to ask Jelly Man what is going on and why am I being escorted and most probably, they are also smelling blood. My blood.
The lady with my passport can't be found at first. We finally find her, he talks to her and I realize (a little too late) that my friend, the Jelly Man, is, like myself, out of his depth. He seems to be a clerk and not an immigration official. So, even though he is blustering his way through and past various checkpoints, he doesn't have the necessary juice to issue a cut-rate visa.
I finally get my passport and go back to the Indian man with the U.S. dollars. He is very helpful and kind, let's me make a call or two into town and gives me real money. Fifty U.S. dollars and a million shillings ($50 U.S.).
Now, Jelly Man and soldier (who is smiling) are both outside the door to the booth. I have now taken on the attitude of a man who expects to jump the line, go past the usual formalities. I have to because I am scared that this will all go wrong somehow but I can't allow myself to show fear. It is one thing to smell blood, quite another to see and taste it. Seeing and tasting leads to frenzies.
On the way into the airport building we are stopped by an immigration officer. Jelly Man says this and that and we move on. I am now put at the front of the line of white faces (all six of them). Jelly Man, I think, could not talk his way into or out of a wet paper bag.
Now we start our stilted conversation again.
He: "Can you help me?"
Me: "Let me get my visa."
He: "Your visa is coming. Can you do something for me?"
Me: "You didn't do anything for me!"
He: "I helped you!"
Me: "My visa is costing $50."
He: "Yes. Now you help me."
We go back and forth like this for 5-7 minutes. It's hard to say exactly how long because I don't keep good track of time while sweating in fear. Finally, I tell him he can wait if he wants -- at the front of the line, in front of the immigration officers and all the glaring black faces -- but I can't help him. He persists. I raise my voice and say, "I don't have anything for you!" Then decide to just ignore any more pleas from him. Jelly Man eventually walks away grumbling. While I have been chatting with Jelly Man and waiting for my documents, everyone that was behind me has been served and exited with their papers
I get my visa and tackle the next problem that has been gnawing away at me: My contact has not arrived to pick me up. No foreigners are at the airport. It is midnight. I have spent the better part of an hour on the visa and now go through immigration to be questioned once more and then try to phone my contact to see if I can still get a ride.
Indian man it is. Three phone calls later, I find my contact on his cell phone. They were not expecting me tonight. Some kind of miscommunication between here and my dad in Canada.
I then talk to an albino woman inside the information booth and manage to get the first genuine smile from a Tanzanian since landing. She has, despite her albinism, green eyes. I tell her her eyes are beautiful and my sister has pink eyes. She smiles and we chat.
I have a smoke while sitting on a bench by the curb with three Black men who look at me but simply do not see me.
Indian man is locking up for the night and calls his security guard (Askari) with a kiss-squeak. The security guard is not a boy, he is well into his 20's. Now I know why the Blacks are treating me with disdain. My ride arrives after twenty minutes and I am whisked away in an air-conditioned Benz to the enclave of Oyster Bay. An area replete with embassies and missions.
On the way to my host's residence, we bust every single traffic light we come upon. My host only slows down long enough to make sure we won't get into an accident and then barrels on through the red lights for fear that we might be robbed while waiting at a red light.
Nearly 30 years after leaving Dar-es-Salam, I have finally arrived.
July 13, 2003
Arrived late yesterday evening (10:55 p.m.) at Dar airport. Learned a quick lesson: I was asked by a man shorter than me, with a pudgyness like a young child, to fill out a special form -- a SARS report. Having done this, I ended up being in line with no one ahead or behind me. Then Jelly Man says, "there is a long line, how are you going to get through?"
I say, "A long line?"
"Yes, there is a queue." I wait a few seconds, looking confused and realizing that Jelly Man wants to help me out, so I can help him out.
So I say to him, "Can you help me?"
He: "I can help you, can you help me?"
Me: "What kind of help?"
Jelly Man looks at me confused, maybe just frustrated because my questions seemed so mis-placed. What I meant to ask him, in a slightly hushed tone, was, "How much?"
He goes on to say, "you can help me?" Somewhat as a question and as a statement.
Finally, I say, "How much?"
He says, "$20.00."
Me: "How much is a Visa?"
Now events start to get very complicated. Ridiculously complicated and tangled. I don't have any cash. I have traveller's cheques. So Jelly Man escorts me past the line with the White faces, past the immigration officers and their Kalashnikov carrying army guy, to the "National Bureau of Exchange."
Jelly Man translates for me but the lady behind the plexi-glass has no U.S. dollars. It seems that the "National Bureau" is tapped out.
Outside the airport building is a man encased in glass. A small Indian man, shirt, tie, thin moustache. I go into his booth and ask if he can exchange my cheques for cash. He says, okay, except Jelly Man has my passport and gave it to a female immigration officer inside the terminal. Now, I don't have my passport. Thus, no way to change my traveller's cheques and I am drawing interest from the taxi drivers, the soldier (now standing outside the booth), and the immigration officers. And the Indian seems like an inadequate ally.
I tell the Indian man (an Ismaili who happens to speak Gujurathi) that I will be back.
Jelly Man is right outside the door and is very curious. I tell him my dilemma. As he walks me into the main building, various immigration types stop us to ask Jelly Man what is going on and why am I being escorted and most probably, they are also smelling blood. My blood.
The lady with my passport can't be found at first. We finally find her, he talks to her and I realize (a little too late) that my friend, the Jelly Man, is, like myself, out of his depth. He seems to be a clerk and not an immigration official. So, even though he is blustering his way through and past various checkpoints, he doesn't have the necessary juice to issue a cut-rate visa.
I finally get my passport and go back to the Indian man with the U.S. dollars. He is very helpful and kind, let's me make a call or two into town and gives me real money. Fifty U.S. dollars and a million shillings ($50 U.S.).
Now, Jelly Man and soldier (who is smiling) are both outside the door to the booth. I have now taken on the attitude of a man who expects to jump the line, go past the usual formalities. I have to because I am scared that this will all go wrong somehow but I can't allow myself to show fear. It is one thing to smell blood, quite another to see and taste it. Seeing and tasting leads to frenzies.
On the way into the airport building we are stopped by an immigration officer. Jelly Man says this and that and we move on. I am now put at the front of the line of white faces (all six of them). Jelly Man, I think, could not talk his way into or out of a wet paper bag.
Now we start our stilted conversation again.
He: "Can you help me?"
Me: "Let me get my visa."
He: "Your visa is coming. Can you do something for me?"
Me: "You didn't do anything for me!"
He: "I helped you!"
Me: "My visa is costing $50."
He: "Yes. Now you help me."
We go back and forth like this for 5-7 minutes. It's hard to say exactly how long because I don't keep good track of time while sweating in fear. Finally, I tell him he can wait if he wants -- at the front of the line, in front of the immigration officers and all the glaring black faces -- but I can't help him. He persists. I raise my voice and say, "I don't have anything for you!" Then decide to just ignore any more pleas from him. Jelly Man eventually walks away grumbling. While I have been chatting with Jelly Man and waiting for my documents, everyone that was behind me has been served and exited with their papers
I get my visa and tackle the next problem that has been gnawing away at me: My contact has not arrived to pick me up. No foreigners are at the airport. It is midnight. I have spent the better part of an hour on the visa and now go through immigration to be questioned once more and then try to phone my contact to see if I can still get a ride.
Indian man it is. Three phone calls later, I find my contact on his cell phone. They were not expecting me tonight. Some kind of miscommunication between here and my dad in Canada.
I then talk to an albino woman inside the information booth and manage to get the first genuine smile from a Tanzanian since landing. She has, despite her albinism, green eyes. I tell her her eyes are beautiful and my sister has pink eyes. She smiles and we chat.
I have a smoke while sitting on a bench by the curb with three Black men who look at me but simply do not see me.
Indian man is locking up for the night and calls his security guard (Askari) with a kiss-squeak. The security guard is not a boy, he is well into his 20's. Now I know why the Blacks are treating me with disdain. My ride arrives after twenty minutes and I am whisked away in an air-conditioned Benz to the enclave of Oyster Bay. An area replete with embassies and missions.
On the way to my host's residence, we bust every single traffic light we come upon. My host only slows down long enough to make sure we won't get into an accident and then barrels on through the red lights for fear that we might be robbed while waiting at a red light.
Nearly 30 years after leaving Dar-es-Salam, I have finally arrived.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Snow Storm
March 8, 2008: 20 cm. snowfall, so far, blankets Toronto.The Photos: Taken on my camera phone, soon after I brushed my teeth with the blender. E-mailed to self from the phone, 'cause I don't have the proper wires to hook up the phone to the computer. From there, the above photos were used as wallpaper for my computer, posted on facebook, sent to family members and then posted on this blog. All in the blink of a lazy eye.
Shall We Dance?
I have yet another reason why you should not buy pirated movies. A friend lent us a copy of "Shall We Dance?" A movie starring Richard Gere, Jennifer Lopez and Susan Sarandon. As the tagline says, "A new comedy about following your own lead." Ah, yes. Truer words have never been spoken.
The story according to the badly copied cover goes something like this:
The real synopsis, from the real, non-pirated movie goes like this:
p.s. I have not seen this movie and have no idea why anyone would recommend it except maybe for the fact that it stars Jennifer Lopez.
The story according to the badly copied cover goes something like this:
John's is a Chicago busy wealth lawyer of work , although there being the work that another man envys , along with good-looking wife and likable children , yet he senses being weary of of unparalleled to daily the person who duplicates uninteresting work in addition . One day , on the route that is living to home , through the glass window on route edge he catch sight of the pretty dance teacher (Zhan Nifu LUO ornament at present) moreover by her charm draw keenly . Then he resolves to start joiing (sic) the dance curriculum of this teacher , so as ca be better comprehend her , but he the life also in the wake of he this resolves and revised.Need I say, (sic). Sic to the whole damn thing. Even the spaces between the last word in the badly mangled sentences and their accompanying punctuation marks.
The real synopsis, from the real, non-pirated movie goes like this:
John Clark is a man with a wonderful job, a charming wife and a loving family, who nevertheless feels that something is missing as he makes his way every day through the city. Each evening on his commute home, John sees a beautiful woman, staring with a lost expression through the window of a dance studio. Haunted by her gaze, John impulsively jumps off the train one night, and signs up for dance lessons, hoping to meet her. At first, it seems like a mistake. His teacher turns out to be not Paulina, but the older Miss Mitzi, and John proves just as clumsy as his equally clueless classmates on the dance-floor. Even worse, when he does meet Paulina, she icily tells John she hopes he has come to the studio to seriously study dance and not to look for a date. But, as his lessons continue, John falls in love with dancing. Keeping his new obsession from his family and co-workers, John feverishly trains for Chicago's biggest dance competition. His friendship with Paulina blossoms, as his enthusiasm rekindles her own lost passion for dance. But the more time John spends away from home, the more his wife becomes suspicious. With his secret about to be revealed, John will have to do some fancy footwork to keep his dream going and realize what it is he really yearns for.
p.s. I have not seen this movie and have no idea why anyone would recommend it except maybe for the fact that it stars Jennifer Lopez.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Clinical Thinking I
Last night I slept on the floor in our bedroom, on the cushions from our living room couch, with freshly laundered sheets and blankets and pillows.This morning, I had fresh welts/bites on my torso and legs! My wife, on the other hand, who slept in our bed with the same old sheets from yesterday and the day before yesterday, had not one single, solitary, bite/welt.
I can conclude three things from this: 1) I am more delicious than my wife and the bugs (if there are any avoided her); 2) There are no bugs infesting my bed; 3) My welts are symptoms of something else beside the awful thought of having bugs in my bed.
Possible hypothesis: I'm having an allergic reaction to something.
What, though? I have not changed any of my shampoos, creams or laundry detergents. I have not altered my diet in any significant way. I have only had seasonal allergies in the past. I am not allergic to any medications, household chemicals or foods.
The mystery...oh, the mystery of it all. Stay tuned!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Help!
As you may have surmised by my lack of posts lately, I am absolutely feeling deluged by work and home life responsibilities.
I am also waking up every morning with various sized and shaped welts on my body. And unless, my wife is drugging me and beating me in my stupor, I have no idea what is causing these outbreaks. My first suspicion was that we have somehow brought home bed bugs. Nasty little creatures who must have a blood meal to live. But I don't see any signs of the little buggers.
Visited the walk-in clinic at Centennary Hospital to see if the medical school graduate could make any sense of it to no avail. The answer was: Could be allergy, doesn't look like bug bites. But, could be bug bites. It's hard to say. Here put this cream on and call your family doctor if the problem persists for more than a week.
I am told that Toronto, in fact, North America, is experiencing an uptick (sorry) in bed bug infestations. But the bugs are not all that small, and should be easy to spot! So, where are they? What am I reacting to?
Here's the kicker: My wife, who sleeps next to me has not had one, single, solitary, welt/bite!! How? Why are they biting me? Aside from the obvious that I am far more delicious than she...but are bugs all that discerning?
Again, any help or hints on this problem would be appreciated.
p.s. No, I have not started using any new creams or shampoos. We are not using any new detergents or fabric softeners. And the kids also do not have any such reactions or infestations.
I am also waking up every morning with various sized and shaped welts on my body. And unless, my wife is drugging me and beating me in my stupor, I have no idea what is causing these outbreaks. My first suspicion was that we have somehow brought home bed bugs. Nasty little creatures who must have a blood meal to live. But I don't see any signs of the little buggers.
Visited the walk-in clinic at Centennary Hospital to see if the medical school graduate could make any sense of it to no avail. The answer was: Could be allergy, doesn't look like bug bites. But, could be bug bites. It's hard to say. Here put this cream on and call your family doctor if the problem persists for more than a week.
I am told that Toronto, in fact, North America, is experiencing an uptick (sorry) in bed bug infestations. But the bugs are not all that small, and should be easy to spot! So, where are they? What am I reacting to?
Here's the kicker: My wife, who sleeps next to me has not had one, single, solitary, welt/bite!! How? Why are they biting me? Aside from the obvious that I am far more delicious than she...but are bugs all that discerning?
Again, any help or hints on this problem would be appreciated.
p.s. No, I have not started using any new creams or shampoos. We are not using any new detergents or fabric softeners. And the kids also do not have any such reactions or infestations.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)